The countess sat down and indicated the chair by her side. “Sit down, Mr. Topham,” she invited.
But Topham stood motionless, hand on the back of the chair, looking at her.
The sun streamed golden through the great window, a stray beam lighting on her hair, transformed its dark mass into iridescent fire. A potted palm swept her shoulders with its delicate fronds. From the street below came up the tramp of men, the rattle of wagons, the jingle of a tram car.
Abruptly Topham spoke. “Please send the baroness away!” he directed, serenely.
Again the countess’ face flamed. She rose half way from her chair; then sat down again, trembling.
“Senor!” she faltered, returning instinctively to her mother tongue. “What mean you? I—I can not receive you without a duenna. It—it is impossible.”
“Not to you! To others, perhaps! Send her away—please.”
“But it is impos—” She rose. “Baroness,” she said, “would you mind looking for a letter from Herrman that I left in the bottom of my escritoire?”
The baroness rose. Her expression was inscrutable. Perhaps she was already so much surprised that her features, incapable of expressing her amazement, had reverted to their former placidity—a placidity from which nothing was likely soon to stir them. “Yes! Yes!” she murmured. “Yes! Yes! Mein Gott!”
When she had disappeared through the door at the end of the room the countess turned to Topham. “Now, senor,” she said, with more spirit than she had shown since the American’s arrival. “I have obeyed your orders and sent away my duenna. True, she is only in the next room, but still we are alone. What have you to say to me to warrant such a demand?”